


7th Annual 25 Days of Hurt Sam

by Center_of_the_Galaxy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Holiday Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Will Feature Other Characters, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:08:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21699742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Center_of_the_Galaxy/pseuds/Center_of_the_Galaxy
Summary: Cross-post of my annual 25 Days of Hurt Sam over on Fanfiction.net.A collection of Holiday Hurt Sam stories as sent in by readers!
Comments: 8
Kudos: 63





	1. Seasons Greetings

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1: It's his first Christmas at Stanford and all he wants is his big brother.

* * *

_“They say that things just cannot grow_

_Beneath the winter snow,_

_Or so I have been told.”_

_—Sara Bareilles & Ingrid Michaelson, “Winter Song”_

* * *

Here’s the thing about Christmastime in California—while it may not snow, you can feel just as cold as if you were standing in a mountainside in Alaska. Case in point, Sam Winchester, as he watches his roommate pack and up and head home for Christmas break, beaming and rambling about his family and their many holiday traditions.

“You sure you don’t wanna come with me? Mom wouldn’t mind.”

Sam refuses, shaking his head, thanking Brady for the offer. It’s his first Christmas truly on his own. He needs to take his time to process this, to realize that Dean isn’t going to give him stolen presents wrapped in newspaper. No, this Christmas, Dean is miles away, ignoring Sam’s calls, still furious over the choice that he made to walk out that door almost three months ago.

It had been an ultimatum, one that Sam knew Dean wished had a different outcome.

But here he is, standing in a quiet dorm room, by himself, with Christmas days away.

* * *

So, what do you when you’re a scholarship kid, forced out of the dorms with nowhere to go?

For Sam, it’s simple, you hide out in a motel room with the last of the money you saved from various side jobs before you left your family. It’s odd to be in a motel room again. It’s too quiet, too surreal and any second, he expects Dean to walk in, a smirk tugging on his older brother’s lips.

But Dean isn’t coming.

Sam is alone.

But Sam won’t wallow. He won’t let the grief consume him. He chose this life and Dean chose to oppose his choice. His older brother couldn’t have possibly been surprised—Sam made it clear how important school was to him—but Sam supposes it was the betrayal of it all that stung. For Dean, Sam chose school over his family.

And for Dean, family always came first.

That night, Sam went against everything Dean stood for. He had stood up to their father, defended himself and dug in his heels. While Sam had shouted at their father, Dean had frozen, remaining silent, his eyes wide and panicked.

_If you walk out that door, don’t you dare come back!_

There’s no point dwelling in the past. Sam had made his choice.

He turns on the crappy motel TV, hoping the faint sounds of Christmas music will distract him.

* * *

Of course, Sam gets sick on day two of break.

It’s the damn flu that had been going around—a combination of tired students facing down finals and the biting cold snap that had swept into the area. Sam isn’t really surprised by the 101 degree temperature staring back at him on the thermometer. He manages to get sick after finals like clockwork and he’s ridden out illnesses before in motel rooms.

He’s just never really done it alone before.

But, after a quick trip to the local store, he returns armed with Tylenol and cough syrup and prepares to ride out the storm.

* * *

He doesn’t expect it to be so rough.

Constantly turning, sweat rolling down his forehead—or are those tears?—and every nerve in his body feels like it’s constantly poked by needles. He’s taken way too much medicine and his fever keeps rising, almost mocking him. The room spins around him and the cough wracks his body, his ribs feel like they’re grinding against each other and he wonders—

“Dean?”

—how did he ever think that leaving his family for school was a good idea?

He never should’ve gone to Stanford.

He misses his brother.

* * *

Cool touches, soft voices.

He floats in a void, the pain blissfully numb, the heat simmering rather than outright burning.

_I’m here, Sammy._

Peace.

Calm.

Safety.

* * *

“Mr. Winchester?”

He blinks at the matronly nurse before him. She wears a pair of reindeer antlers on her pinned back chestnut hair and they jingle as she bustles about the room, taking his vitals.

“Where?” His mouth is dry, and his tongue feels like sandpaper. His chest aches, like someone has sat on it for days.

The woman smiles softly, “You’re at Stanford General in the ICU. You gave your brother quite a scare, young man.”

It takes him two seconds too long to comprehend, “My brother—?”

“Hey, Sammy.”

It’s not a vision of a fever dream that greets him. It’s truly Dean, leaning on the doorway, dark circles under his eyes, five o’clock shadow stubble on his chin.

The nurse grins, “I’ll be back to check on you in a bit,” She moves to the doorway and stops suddenly, “Oh, and Merry Christmas.” With that, she scurries out.

Dean’s gaze pierces his, his brother always has had an uncanny ability to read Sam’s face like a book, to figure out all the secrets that the youngest Winchester did his best to conceal.

“Dean.”

Dean crosses the distance between them, taking a seat in the well-worn chair by his bedside. It’s been three months since Sam last saw those emerald eyes and heard that warm voice. He hadn’t realized, until now, just how much he missed his big brother.

“You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic, Sammy,” Dean smiles, his eyes misting, “I come to surprise you for Christmas and find you burning up of a fever on your own.”

So, Dean had found him.

Dean always finds him.

“You were coming to see me?”

Dean runs a hand through his hair, grimacing somewhat, “Three months was . . .”

“Too long,” Sam completes softly, “Dean, I’m—”

“Don’t apologize. I get it. Stanford is your thing. And fuck, I should’ve been proud of you. My big brained, nerdy brother got a full ride to one of the best universities around,” Dean huffs out a dry laugh, “You’re smart. You were smart to leave. I just didn’t see it.”

Silence. The steady beeping of the heart monitor echoes in the small room.

“I missed you.” Sam confesses and later, he’ll blame this on the aftereffects of the medicine, but he grabs his brother’s calloused hand in his and squeezes it, grounding himself.

Dean smirks, “No chick flick moments, dude,” But he doesn’t let go of his hand. Then, softly, “I missed you too.”

And as Christmas music plays around them, Sam realizes that his brother is the greatest Christmas present of all. 


	2. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories haunt him in the winter snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for physical abuse of a child (one punch, not described in detail). If this bothers you, please do not read. Set in season 7.

* * *

_“It's Christmas time_

_So open up the flood gates_

_Tell me that you'll be late_

_And rip me apart.”_

_Colbie Caillat, “Mistletoe”_

* * *

The snow is more akin to fire.

The way it rains down, swirling and twirling, white flakes scorching his skin like flames. He knows it’s wrong—this whole thing is wrong—but he’s frozen outside, staring upwards at the dark sky, letting the burning snow consume him.

“You’re crazy, ain’t ya, Sammy?” A dark voice coos, chuckling, “You know where we are, right?”

The woods stretch on for a small eternity, giant trees obscuring the moon, faint traces of light touching the ground. It’s too quiet tonight, much too still and Sam knows that everything is wrong.

“Playing the silent game now?” The Devil comes beside him, brushing Sam’s shoulder, “You know I don’t like that.”

He’s lost in the wilderness, nothing but sky and trees for miles. There are tracks for him to follow, no traces for him to find to lead him back. Sam’s mind is blank, void of any idea of how he ended up here in the first place.

Where is Dean?

“Sam!” Lucifer snaps and the youngest Winchester flinches at the sharp tone of the voice that haunted his nightmares. The Devil meets his gaze, smiling sinisterly, “You wanna be rude? Fine. Two can play that game.” He steps further into the woods, snow alighting him, almost like a parody of a halo.

“Wait!”

But the Devil is gone, and soon, the woods fade. Replacing them is a small cabin in the woods, a familiar wood one that he last saw years ago. The wooden cabin with the thick door and the golden doorknob, the one that Dean would make faces in after Sam had rough day at school, the one where John left them for longer stretches of time, only leaving enough money for heat and a few groceries.

The door opens and John steps out and suddenly, Sam is ten years old again, trembling before his angry father, knowing that he’s done something wrong yet again.

“Sam,” John hisses, syllables slurring, “Where have you been?”

He remembers this. He could never forget this. The first time his father had really tore into him, made him feel like a failure in the family.

“I asked you a question.”

“I was getting Christmas decorations.”

There’s a plastic bag in his hand now, colorful tinsel poking out of it, sparkling ornaments twinkling in the fading light. He’d spent all day after school trying to get the best deals, trying to make his meager amount of money stretch far enough to try and compete with those picture-perfect Christmases that he’d seen on TV.

John glowers, “My orders were to come straight home. It’s dangerous, Sam.”

“But Dean gets to—”

John grips his shoulder, pressure crushing, causing pain to radiate down his arm, “Dean is more mature than you. I can trust Dean! You, Sam, I can’t rely on you!”

How many times has he replayed this moment in his mind? How many years had this memory haunted him?

“I just wanted us to spend Christmas together,” He whispers softly, voice breaking, but John’s face is unchanged, “Dad.”

“Go inside.”

“But—!”

There’s a resounding smack that echoes in the woods. He stumbles, his cheek stinging, and he knows now what he didn’t understand then—John had been drunk and had hit him. But at the time, Sam couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong.

“Get the fuck inside, Sam,” John hisses, “And stay there.”

John melts away and there’s just the cabin in the woods.

And then John appears again and the whole thing replays.

Over and over again.

* * *

When he comes to again, he’s lying on a motel room bed, Christmas music faintly playing.

“You with me?”

Sam blinks, searching for Lucifer, but mercifully, the Devil isn’t in the building, for now at least. He forces himself to sit up, wincing somewhat as his head pounds. Dean hands him a glass of water and Sam downs it, grateful for the cool liquid that parched his dry throat.

“Sam?” Dean takes a seat at the edge of the bed, green eyes swimming in concern, “You back with me?”

“The woods?”

Dean grimaces, “Found you out there. You were freezing, just staring.”

“At the cabin.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, waits for his little brother to go on. Sam sucks in a breath, trying to calm his racing heart because he’s not there anymore and he’s come so far from that one punch in the middle of the snow.

“What did you see?” Dean’s voice is barely above a whisper, so cautious and careful, almost as if he knows that Sam will break if he asks the wrong question.

“Dad. When I was ten.”

The recognition flashes in his older brother’s eyes, followed by profound grief. Dean hadn’t been there then. He’d come later, after Sam had cried himself to sleep in his bed, curled up into a ball. He’d taken one look at the bruise on his little brother’s cheek and he’d known.

Neither one had ever talked about it.

From that moment on, John had been kept away from Sam at Christmastime and Dean stayed around during the holiday season.

John never laid a hand on him again.

“Sam.” Dean places a hand on his brother’s shoulder and it’s so gentle, so different from John’s touch that one snowy day so many years ago. Dean had never hurt him. Dean wouldn’t leave him, even now, with how broken Sam is, how screwed up his mind is.

“I’m sorry.”

Dean just hugs him.

Sam feels himself break, feels his body shake with sobs, lets the tears take their course as Dean holds him, grounding him, keeping him safe.

“I should’ve been there,” Dean mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

Sam just shakes his head. Dean couldn’t have known what would’ve happened. Neither of them could’ve.

When they break apart, Sam forces himself to wear a shaky smile, “Hot chocolate and crappy Christmas movies?”

Dean huffs out a wet laugh, “Dude, really?”

“You love it more than me.”

Dean doesn’t respond, just laughs once more.

It’s Christmastime and while some memories still haunt him, it’s the new memories that bring him solace.


	3. Twinkling Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twinkling lights mock him as the world fades to black.

* * *

" _For I've grown a little leaner_

_Grown a little colder_

_Grown a little sadder_

_Grown a little older_

_And I need a little angel_

_Sitting on my shoulder_

_I need a little Christmas now."_

_Johnny Mathis, "We Need A Little Christmas"_

* * *

It really could be the setup of a joke.

What do you get when two gruff hunters, one angel and the son of the Devil walk into a bunker carrying tinsel, lights and ornaments? There are thousands of different ways to come up with a punchline to end that joke, but in reality, it's just as odd as you might expect.

"We're wasting time," Jack mutters yet again, as he puts the box of lights down by their pine tree, a gift from Castiel who teleported it in last night, "We could be doing research or—"

"Jack, relax," Dean smirks, huffing out a laugh, "It's your first Christmas."

And it's true.

Jack, the son of the Devil, the guy who has aged faster both physically and mentally over the past few months, the guy who reminds Sam so much of himself as a teen, lost and looking for guidance. They've come a long way over the past few months and they've come to regard Jack as pretty much their kid.

The kid with three fathers, none of them really normal.

It's another joke waiting to happen.

Regardless, Sam finds himself grinning like a child on Christmas morning as he pulls out the rainbow-colored lights. How long has it been since they last decorated—since they last truly took a moment to breathe and celebrate?

"I'm just saying—" Jack presses once more, but Castiel places a firm hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Trust me on this," The angel smiles softly, "Accept it. You're not going to win this argument." He takes out some tinsel, holding it up to the space, trying to find the best place to put it.

"It's just Christmas," Jack sighs, "I mean, my dad is the Devil. Who's to say that Christmas isn't just some messed up crap anyways?"

"Just decorate the tree," Dean instructs softly, "I'll be in the kitchen."

Jack's head whips around, eyes wide with anticipation, "What are you making?"

"Just wait." Dean's laugh echoes down the hall as he moves to the kitchen. Sam faces the tree, starting to lay some lights on it. It's been too many years since he's seen a real tree with glowing lights. The Christmases of his childhood were always newspaper wrapped gifts and broken twigs. Even at Stanford, he'd hadn't had a chance to experience that Hallmark Christmas that he'd always dreamed of.

But now, years later, having come so far from where he'd been, Sam feels like this year might be the year.

The year of a perfect Christmas.

"Should I plug this in?" Jack's voice flits in as Sam studies the wiring, noticing a second too late that there are exposed strands in the wiring.

Sam doesn't have time to reply. His body burns, his blood sizzles. He feels electricity coursing through him, using him to make a circuit. Jack screams, yanking the lights out and Castiel is there, catching Sam's limp body, but Sam can't keep his eyes open anymore.

The twinkling Christmas lights mock him as he fades away.

* * *

Jack is a second chance.

For Sam, he never had the help of someone who knew so much about the world of the supernatural. Back then, they'd never known that angels were real nor could they have ever known the twisted destiny that laid before them. John hadn't been the best father either, though with hindsight, Sam knew that he'd tried his best. Coping with grief from their mother's death, dealing with alcoholism (though John had been high-functioning) and dealing with two very different sons—John tried.

But Sam had never wanted to be the kind of father that tried. He wanted to be an active dad, one that guided his kid and helped and supported the kid. With Jessica, the idea of being of a dad had seemed so natural, but after she died and his dreams went up in smoke (literally), he'd figured that that path was over.

Enter Jack.

He wouldn't let Jack suffer like he did. He would guide him and try to help him.

Jack was their kid and for Sam, he was a second chance.

* * *

"Sammy?"

Sam's eyes feel like their weighed down by sandbags. He blinks a few times, trying to bring the world into focus. He's lying on the floor, Jack's misty eyes meeting his. Dean squeezes his hand, grounding him and Castiel frowns somewhat.

"You with me?"

"I'm so sorry," Jack apologizes, voice thick with regret, "I didn't know. Sam, I'm—"

"M'fine," Sam slurs, the world spinning above him, "It's okay, Jack."

"He's in shock, Dean," Castiel states softly, "He needs medical assistance."

Dean winces, "Yeah, okay," His older brother places a cool hand on his cheek, smiling reassuringly, "Hang on, Sammy, okay?"

Castiel lifts him, somehow cradling his body like it's nothing—angel strength, maybe—and then he feels himself flying.

But the darkness returns, and Sam is no more.

* * *

The steady beeping of the heart monitor filters in, mingled with the faint strains of Carol of the Bells. His body comes back to him slowly, awareness coming back slowly as he opens his eyes, staring upwards at the sterile white ceiling.

"Sam?" Jack sits up, eyes red and puffy.

Had he been crying?

Sam swallows, trying to his mouth to work, "Y'kay?"

"I'm fine," Jack insists, "Dean and Cas just went to get coffee. They'll be back in a second."

Sam tries to put a reassuring smile on his lips, but his mouth hurts and he finds himself wincing again.

"Sam?"

"S'fine." Sam offers his hand, and Jack's fingers quickly slips into it. It's funny, how much it reminds him of days spent in motel rooms, suffering from colds with a big brother close by.

Jack isn't son, that's true.

But, as someone close to him once said, "Family don't end with blood."

So, he may be spending Christmas in the hospital, but as long as his family is here, that's what matters.


	4. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas fills them with nothing but grief.

" _It's coming on Christmas,_

_They're cutting down trees._

_Putting up reindeer_

_And singing songs of joy and peace,_

_Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on."_

— _Sarah McLachlan, "River"_

* * *

It's their first Christmas as orphans.

That realization slams into Sam's body every time he sees a twinkling Christmas light, hears a familiar holiday tune or spies a flurry of snow. It's funny, this is the second Christmas in a row where he's been mourning someone important to him, but this time, he feels truly alone. Dean hasn't spoken to him—aside from a few one-word answers—since they watched their father's body burn, tears stinging their eyes. Sam gets it, really, Dean had been the perfect little soldier, always willing to fall in line with their father, never challenging him like Sam often would. Without John, Dean probably felt lost.

Without John, Sam just feels . . . empty.

The last thing he said to his father was an insult—words spewed in anger, wanting to hurt his father, wanting to make John feel just a fraction of the fury Sam felt.

But now, John was gone, Dean was broken, and Sam felt guilty.

* * *

Bobby had, luckily, taken them in for the holidays, the gruff older hunter somehow keeping them grounded in the midst of all the emotional chaos. Of course, he and Dean dealt with pain the same way, by avoiding it. Still, the salvage yard offered them both a bunch of cars to work out their aggressions on and if, judging by the echoes of shattered glass filling the air, Dean seemed to be doing that quite often.

He hadn't even spoken to Dean in days, with his older brother rising early and going to bed late, preferring to stay by himself during the day. He didn't even stick around for breakfast, leaving Sam to eat alone, munching on burnt toast and fried eggs.

"Morning, Sam," Bobby hands him a glass of dark coffee, concern etched on his rugged visage. The hunter takes a seat at the dining table, grabbing his own mug and taking a sip, "Dean up?"

The smashing of another car window answers that question.

Bobby shakes his head, sighing, "Damn idjit."

Sam huffs out a dry chuckle, taking a sip of the warm liquid, "He's just venting."

"Yeah? He vent with you yet?"

"No." Sam knows why. Dean blames him for John's death and Sam can't exactly fault him for that. In Dean's mind, Sam hadn't ever appreciated their father and now that John is dead, that bitterness is welling up, tainting his older brother's view of him.

"Grief is fucked up, boy," Bobby mumbles softly, "With the amount of baggage he left behind, I ain't surprised."

They drink their coffee in silence for a few moments, banging still resounding.

"Just . . ." Bobby's voice is unusually quiet, nuanced with unspoken emotions, "Don't let your brother treat you bad. Your daddy loved you both. Ain't no one disputing that."

Sam smiles, swallowing a wave of grief that pricks tears at his eyes, "Thanks, Bobby."

It's going to be rough, but Sam knows they will get through it somehow.

* * *

Sam tries to reach out to Dean more, trying to get his brother to open up, but Dean is locked up tight, refusing to budge, to even give an inch. All that rolls off of him is anger and Sam finds himself drowning in guilt.

"Just talk to me, man." Sam pleads, one night after Bobby has gone to bed.

Dean nurses a beer, back turned, eyes locked on something outside the window.

"You wanna talk? Fine," Dean growls, spinning toward Sam, "Dad's dead, Sam."

"I know."

"No, you don't fucking know!" Dean slams his hands on the wooden table, the noise echoing through the empty house, "I should be dead, Sam. Dad should be here."

Sam shakes his head, "Dean, you can't—"

"Don't tell me what I should feel!" Dean hisses, "You never liked, Dad, okay? You were always yelling at him and challenging him and fuck, Sam, why didn't you stop him?" His older brother grips his shoulders, squeezing tightly enough to leave a bruise, "Why is he dead? Why am I still here?"

And for once, Sam is left speechless.

He can't believe this. Dean would rather be dead? A world without Dean . . . Sam can't even process it. Before he can even think about it, the words tumble out—

"I'm not sorry that he's gone and you're here, Dean."

—and realizes just how much he messed up.

The punch connects with his face, his body falling down to the ground, slamming into the wooden floor. He glances up, meeting his brother's panicked gaze, but words fail him. Dean retreats, the outside door slamming and the familiar rev of a car filling the still night air.

Sam forces himself to get up, ignoring the pain his body and dragging himself to bed.

* * *

"Nice bruise you got there," Bobby remarks the next morning, "Run into a doorframe?"

"No." Sam sighs, knowing he should've used more concealer, but honestly, it's not the bruise that bothers him. It's the pain in his ribs—a sharp wince every time he takes a deep breath in.

"Sam." Bobby stares at him, waiting.

"Just let it go."

It's cowardly, he thinks, to have Bobby be the target of his misplaced rage. But nothing about this situation is okay and honestly, the more Sam ruminates on it, the more he feels himself growing unsettled.

* * *

"Your brother is sporting a bruise that looks remarkably like your fist."

Dean ignores the accusatory voice behind him, choosing to fiddle with the motor of the Impala.

"Don't you ignore me, boy."

"What do you want me to say, Bobby? I got pissed and I punched him." Dean turns around, shrugging. Bobby raises an eyebrow, and the eldest Winchester sighs, running a hand through his hair, "I'm not proud about it, Bobby."

The gruff hunter comes to stand next to him, "Your brother is hurting, just as much as you."

"I shouldn't be here—"

"Don't start up that crap with me, Dean," Bobby folds his arms over his chest, leaning against the car, "John made his choice and I get it, it's fucked up, but you are here. And your brother is hiding something. He needs you, Dean. The boy is drowning." Dean shakes his head, about to protest, but Bobby interjects, "Talk to him."

Dean exhales softly, "Okay."

He needs to find his brother.

* * *

Sam can't breathe without grimacing.

He knows a cracked rib when he feels one and that's how he knows that he needs to get to a doctor to get this fixed, but Sam can't bring himself to move off of his bed, trying to find the perfect position to just close his eyes and rest.

"Sammy?" A faint voice behind his door, a timid knock.

Sam really doesn't want to deal with this now. He just wants to breathe and sleep and wake up and have his father alive and have Dean not mad at him.

"I'm coming in."

Turns out Sam isn't that lucky.

The door creaks open and Dean steps in, eyes downcast.

"You don't need to say anything." Sam insists softly, trying to project strength when he obviously has none.

Of course, Winchester luck being what it is, Dean sees right through him, "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

Dean glares, "It's not nothing. You're wincing. Your face hurt?"

"No."

"Then, what?"

Sam really doesn't want to confess. His head spins, his lungs burn and the pain increases. He just wants to sleep. He doesn't want to fight or be told that he's a loser or that John should be alive instead of him.

"Sammy?"

He sighs, ragged, "My ribs."

Dean arches his brow, "Your ribs?" Realization dawns, "When you fell?"

"Think it's cracked."

Dean growls, "Jesus Christ, Sam." His older brother rushes to him, his hands carefully brushing over Sam's chest.

"Dean, it's fine."

But then Dean presses on the cracked rib and Sam's vision goes black and he's gone.

* * *

Only to awake on the couch in Bobby's living room, a white bandage around his chest and his older brother passed out in the chair next to him.

"You with us?" Bobby calls out quietly.

"Think so."

Dean remains asleep, a testament to how worried he must've been earlier. Bobby moves to the couch, smiling a bit, "Gave him quite a scare."

"Is it bad?"

"No," Bobby informs him, "Just painful. Inflamed. We patched it, but if it doesn't go away in a few days, we'll get your ass to a doctor."

Sam smirks, "Don't make me laugh. It hurts."

Dean stirs, eyes opening wide.

"Sammy?"

Sam grins, "Hey."

Dean is still half asleep, eyes glazed over with fatigue, "I didn't mean it." There's more unspoken there, a thousand apologies and regrets welling up in his eyes. They'll need to talk about it more, really try to connect and push through the grief, but for right now, it's the holiday season and it's time for them to let it go.

"I know, Dean. I know."

And when Dean smiles, it lights up the room brighter than any Christmas light.


	5. Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the past makes Dean realize that his brother is the greatest Christmas present of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Attempted suicide in this chapter. If that bothers you, please do not read!

" _Christmas is not a time nor a season, but a state of mind. To cherish peace and goodwill, to be plenteous in mercy, is to have the real spirit of Christmas."_

― _Calvin Coolidge_

* * *

The bar is warm and familiar, decked out with rainbow Christmas lights and faint jazz filtering in. There are not too many patrons either, what with the holidays being so close, and so Dean is able to easily slide up to the bar and flag down the pretty bartender, with bouncy red curls and vibrant green eyes.

"What can I get you?" She studies him closely and he gets it, the rest of her patrons are old timers, probably here to get away from their crazy families. Dean is the youngest by at least 20 years.

"Beer." If his curt response bothers her, she doesn't show it, fetching a glass and beginning to pour the drink.

_What do you want me to say? That I've made mistakes? I've made mistakes, Dean._

God, that beer cannot get here fast enough. He can't shake Sam's voice out of his ears, can't stop feeling the weight of the gun in his hands.

He almost killed his brother tonight. If Garth hadn't acted, he would've killed Sam. Dean isn't sure how to process that.

"Here you go." She slides the beer to him, and he dips his head in acknowledgement.

The burn of alcohol down his throat is a balm for his savaged soul. He can numb the pain with this and who cares if it isn't a healthy coping mechanism? For once, Dean just wants to feel nothing.

He gets darkness and dizziness instead.

* * *

When he comes to, he's tied to a chair facing a huge illuminated Christmas tree.

"You back?" a melodic voice calls out and he struggles with the ropes, to no avail. The bartender steps into view, a smirk playing on her peach lips, "There you are. I was starting to think I put too much in your beer."

"Who the fudge are you?" His eyes widen at his choice of vocabulary and the woman points to the Christmas tree.

"Apologies. It's Christmastime. We got to try and keep this PG, okay?" She adjusts one of the many-colored glass ornaments on the branches, "As for me, let's just go with a friend."

"A friend wouldn't drug me and kidnap me, you—" His voice cuts out suddenly and he can't get out the insult.

She chuckles, "PG, remember?" She turns to face him, piercing eyes meeting his, unknown sadness etched on her face, "Dean Winchester, welcome to your Christmas Carol."

Before he can say anything else, she snaps her fingers and the lights begin to glow brighter, their rainbow colors flooding the room until he can see nothing but their glow. When the glow fades, he's standing outside in the snow, with the woman beside him.

"Do you remember this place?" She questions, gesturing to the snow covered, wooden cabin, surrounded by trees.

Dean squints, trying to place it. He growls, "Look, lady, I'm not playing games. Let me go or—!"

"What did you just say to me?"

Dean freezes. He would know that gruff, demanding voice anywhere. It's been years since he's heard it and even now, his body stiffens in anticipation.

"I'll ask you again," John Winchester hisses, staring down at Sam, no more than 13 years old, trembling, "What did you just say to me?"

"It wasn't Dean's fault," Little Sam protests, "The hunt went sideways because you weren't there."

"Sammy?" Dean swallows against the clump of emotion buried in his throat. He reaches out to the vision, but the woman yanks his hand back.

"They can't see you. Do you remember now?"  
He does. Winter in Montana—they'd chased after a werewolf and almost ended up dying in a cave collapse. Dean had taken the blame and John had punished him harshly, but he had never known that Sam confronted their father like this.

"Don't you dare talk to me—!" John rages, voice growing even louder and Sam flinches.

"It's true!" Sam screams and for a second, it looks like John is going to hit his baby brother. Dean's instincts kick in and he's running toward John, placing himself in between his brother and his father.

"He doesn't mean it, Dad!" Dean yells.

"Get inside, Sam," John orders, "We'll discuss this later."

Sam deflates, "Yes, sir."

Sam shuffles inside, John shaking his head in disbelief. Slowly, their images fade away, leaving just Dean and the woman in the snow.

"Your brother has always cared for you, Dean."

And then they're fading away together.

* * *

"Who are you?"

They're in the middle of Stanford, that much Dean can figure out on his own. Students wearing winter sweaters scurry past them, clutching their precious final papers and projects. The woman faces him, smiling softly, "I'm here to help."

"Why?"

"Because you tried to kill him."

Dean stiffens.

She continues, "And that's tearing both of you up inside."

"Sam!"

Enter Jessica Moore, a girl so beautiful and graceful that Dean still has a hard time believing that his brother was her boyfriend. She's rushes to his baby brother, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "Ready for break?"

Sam nods, "Yeah."

Jessica slips her hand into his, "You sure you don't want to come home with me? My parents wouldn't mind."

Sam shakes his head, "Nah. I've got things to do."

Jessica narrows her gaze, "Things?"

"Yeah."

"Well, if you're sure." The two of them walk into the distance, discussing various final assignments and grades.

"He didn't go with her because he was hoping you would come," The woman—she must be a witch of some sorts—states quietly, "but you never did."

No, he didn't. He'd let anger and fear build a wall so hard that nothing could break it, short of their father's disappearance.

"I've seen enough." Dean mutters.

But the witch shakes her head, "I'm afraid we've only just begun."

And they're moving once more.

* * *

They move past the years together, with Dean seeing just how hard Sam fights for him. From trying desperately to find a cure to Dean's impending death their first year on the road together, to the six months Sam spends trapped in that damned loop, Dean grows more and more desperate with each passing memory. Yet, they still travel on and he sees the voicemail and hears his voice, twisted and wrong, torturing his brother and he wants to scream, wants to reassure his brother that everything is okay, but there's nothing he can do.

They stop in a motel room, where Sam sits on a bed, holding a gun.

Ice fills Dean's veins because he knows what he's going to see, remembers hearing something about Sam testing out Lucifer's promise of bringing him back.

"No. Please." He pleads with the witch, begging her to spare him, because he doesn't want to see this, as Sam places the gun to his temple and lets out a breath.

"You need to," She states softly, "To understand."

And Sam fires the trigger.

Dean screams and he's not sure that he'll ever stop screaming.

* * *

They're off again, visiting Sam in Hell, seeing the fractured mess that he is after the wall breaks and finally, they're racing down a dirt road in the backseat of the Impala.

"You wanted to know why he left you for a girl?" The witch asks calmly. She gestures to Sam's wild eyes and erratic driving, "It was the dog that saved him first."

"What?" Dean questions.

Sam grips the steering wheel and Dean recognizes that wild-eyed look anywhere. It's the look of desperation, the look of no more. The realization clicks into place—Sam is going to crash and die.

Only he hits a dog instead.

And being the good person that he is, Sam wouldn't let a dog die for him, so he takes the dog to the vet and that's when he meets the girl.

The image fades and Dean finds himself in that living room with the Christmas tree.

"Holly," The woman states quietly. At his raised eyebrow, she adds, "My name. Well, my human name. I'm much older than you might think."

So, she's not a witch, but something more ancient and more primal.

"Why did you do this?" He feels broken inside, shattered beyond repair. His brother has been through so much more crap that he ever thought. How could Dean even begin to go forward and fix their relationship?

She smiles sadly, wistfulness in her eyes, "It's Christmas, the season of forgiveness." She places a warm hand on Dean's shoulder, "You must forgive your brother and in turn, forgive yourself."

And with a wave of her hand and one last grin, he finds himself sitting at the bar, with a new bartender, as if nothing had ever happened.

Except it did.

* * *

He finds Sam back at the motel, his brother's eyes red-rimmed with tears that he's half a second away from denying. He doesn't wait for words, but throws himself at his little brother, arms crushing as they encircle his frame.

Sam stiffens, surprised, but slowly, he hugs him back.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"You don't have anything to apologize for—"

Dean lets go of his brother, adding sharply, "I do, Sam. Not just for today. For everything."

Sam arches an eyebrow, "What do you mean?"

He'll explain it all in the morning. For tonight, he wants nothing more than to lay on the hood of the Impala with his brother, nursing a beer and looking up at the stars. He wants to get everything off his chest, to truly reconcile with his baby brother.

To move on from a past of pain and regret.

"Dean?"

"I love you, Sammy."

Sam doesn't hesitate, "Love you too."

And then, just so it doesn't get too corny, Dean adds, "Bitch."

Sam chuckles, "Jerk."

It's not over, but it's a step in the right direction.


	6. Realizations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While suffering from the Trials, San realizes what he must do to ensure that the world is able to celebrate Christmas again next year.

* * *

" _O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree_

_Such pleasure do you bring me_

_For every year this Christmas tree_

_Brings to us such joy and glee."_

_Tony Bennett, "O Christmas Tree"_

* * *

He's running a perpetual fever of 101 and for all the medicine he's taking, and Gatorade he's drinking, Sam can't seem to make a dent in it. He knows that this is the way it's going to be now until he finished the Trials. What he didn't understand was why Dean was determined to try and change that. The only way to stop the fever would be to go through the Trials, after all, though his older brother seemed determine to prevent any more harm to come Sam's way. Dean wouldn't even let him out of his sight whenever they left the Bunker and discussions about Sam hunting were always tabled. Frankly, it was starting to get on the youngest Winchester's nerves. He didn't like being treated like an invalid—he wasn't. He could still hunt and still help his brother.

He just had to do it while constantly sweating and trying to breathe through perpetually clogged lungs.

Kevin, for his part, seemed to scurry around the bunker, trying to figure out how to be an asset for the upcoming battle, but the kid was still a teen and as the days grew colder and the snow begun to fall outside, Sam caught his gaze lingering outside more than once.

Christmastime had come and while the two Winchesters hadn't properly celebrated it in years, Kevin was still new to this life. This was his first year without his mom and probably without Christmas. Sam felt a twinge of guilt for the teen—no one deserved this life.

"Sammy?"

Dean emerged from the kitchen, a glass of water in one hand and yet another dose of Tylenol in the other.

Sam winced as he stomach recoiled at the thought of putting anything—even water—in it. Dean, being so attuned to his baby brother, of course noticed this and instantly put the glass down on the table, placing a cool hand on Sam's forehead.

"It's the same," Sam muttered, "I'm good, Dean."

Dean sighed, shaking his head, "You're lying. Take your meds."

Sam did as he was told, though he knew it would do no good. Still, he figured it was more of a gesture to make Dean happy and he was willing to play along for a bit. Dean, for all his snide remarks, did like normalcy. Sure, his definition of that was still hunting, but when it came to their day-to-day, Dean liked routine. Caring for Sam was part of that and with Sam being sick, that had gone up into overdrive.

"How's Kevin?"

Dean arched an eyebrow, "Kid's fine."

"He seems . . . quiet."

"What are you getting at?"

Sam huffed out a dry chuckle, biting down on the cough that tried to follow it after. Once he could breathe, he continued, "It's his first Christmas without his mom."

Sam could see the bulb light up above his brother's head.

"Maybe, we, uh, could do something." Dean finally stated and Sam just nodded.

They owe it to the kid, after all.

* * *

Dean goes shopping for Christmas decorations, leaving Sam time to finally process everything. He's been trying to be strong for his brother, but he can feel it in his blood—these Trials, they'll kill him. He's not sure how he feels about that. On one hand, he's a bit relieved. He was supposed to be dead, stabbed all those years ago in Cold Oak, but Dean had meddled and sent them both down a path that Sam still isn't sure that they should've gone down. If Sam could've stay dead and prevented all that, he would've.

But, on the other hand, he does want to live. He wants to see a world without demons with his brother by his side. He wants to reach that light at the end of the tunnel and have a peaceful existence. He just wants to . . . live.

A cough wracked his body and he doubled over, tasting copper, and he didn't need to even look to know that there's blood on his lips. Dean didn't know yet and if Sam had his way, he won't find out, but it was hard keeping a secret this big.

"Sam?"

Kevin stood in the doorway, eyes wide and worried.

"I'm fine," Sam brushed away the blood, wiping it on a tissue, "It's just a cough."

Kevin remained unconvinced, brow furrowed, eyes downcast. Softly, he stated, "You should tell him."

"Soon."

It was a lie and they both knew it. But Kevin at least had the heart not to call him out on it as he took a seat next to Sam.

"Do you ever get used to it? The whole demons are real thing, I mean."

Sam didn't hesitate, "No. Not really."

Kevin deflated.

"But you've got people in your corner. We'll make it through, you'll see." He wrapped an arm around the teen, grounding him and offering support.

"Yeah, we will."

Sam just smiled, bittersweet.

* * *

The next morning, Sam stumbled out into a Christmas explosion. Rainbow lights glowed from every corner of the bunker, a giant tree stood front and center, decorated with tinsel and ornaments that sparkled in the light, and there were presents of various sizes, wrapped and waiting under the tree.

Kevin could barely contain his glee, the teen practically jumping up and down, "This is amazing!"

Even Cas was here, the angel being put to work, hanging up even more string lights.

Dean just grinned, "Well, this is the first time we've celebrated in our own place. Go big or go home, right?"

Sam smirked, "Right."

"The amount of lights seem excessive for this space," Castiel stated bluntly, earning an eyeroll from Dean in return, "Still, I suppose it's quite festive."

"What do you think, Sammy?" Dean questioned and Sam forced a smile on his face.

"It's great."

And it was, truly.

It just . . . there was something about the holidays that brought up a sadness in Sam that he never could quite explain. A longing, perhaps, for the life of normalcy he would never leave. And today, as he looked at the bunker, sparkling with Christmas joy, he knew it with absolute certainty—if he finished these Trials, it would be the last Christmas he would ever see.

Maybe he wasn't as okay with that as he thought.

He was jealous too, he had to admit, of the smile tugging on Kevin's lip, of the wonder in Castiel's eyes. They would get to be with Dean long after he was gone. They would spend countless Christmases that Sam would never see.

He was grateful for them, yes, but he was bitter too.

He wanted to live.

But his fate was—and always had been—to die for the good of the world.

* * *

"Sammy? You good?"

"Fine."

Dean smirked, "Liar." He moved into the room, taking a seat next to his brother at the long wooden table.

"Kevin and Cas?"

"Both passed out. Think they got a little too wound up in the Christmas spirit." Dean chuckled dryly and Sam found himself grinning as well. It was so rare for them to have moments of levity. Usually, their lives were comprised of bloody hunts and heartbreaking losses.

"Figures."

Dean hardened his gaze, "What's going on in that big head of yours, Sammy?"

There it was—big brother's intuition going off with perfect accuracy. But, what could Sam really say? If he told Dean the truth, his brother would order him to stop the Trials, despite knowing that they could save so many lives. When it came down to it, Sam knew his life wasn't worth more than anyone else's.

It was Dean that refused to accept that fact.

"Sammy?"

He can't tell his brother the truth. He must keep up this charade for as long as he could. He had to keep walking this path until it was too late for Dean to stop him.

He had to die so that others could have that shot at normalcy that Sam was always denied.

"Just a headache." The lie rolled smoothly off his tongue.

"I'll get you some more medicine." Dean scurried away and Sam sighed.

It would be his last Christmas, but he would see these Trials through so that Dean could have another Christmas.


	7. Remembrances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This year, there's nothing to celebrate. Just a thousand reasons to mourn."

" _Cold icing on a walkway_

_Slip into the games we play, we're falling apart_

_A great big house, we made out of gingerbread_

_Crumbles to the ground, we're breaking apart."_

_Colbie Caillat, "Mistletoe"  
_

* * *

It's funny how Christmas seems to bring the ghosts of Christmas past out of the woodworks. As they grow closer and closer to December 25th, Sam desperately tries to focus on the most pressing issue of hand—stopping Chuck—and not on how empty the bunker is, how big it seems and lonely.

They've lost people before. Hell, they've lost more friends than most and each time, Sam wonders if this will be the time that his heart will finally stop feeling. Ellen, Jo, Bobby, Kevin and Charlie—so many people they loved, dead and gone because of them.

Jack.

Really, just as year ago, they were teaching Jack about Christmas.

And as if on cue, the ghosts in his past begin to materialize.

* * *

The complete confusion on Jack's face is kind of adorable.

As Dean hands him a string of rainbow-colored lights, Jack's brow furrows, almost like Cas' used to so many years ago.

"And we're doing this why?" Jack questions and Sam smirks. Normally, they don't really do the holidays, but with Jack being with them, it's a special case and it's honestly refreshing to be decorating the bunker rather than focusing on the latest crisis happening in their world.

Dean just chuckles, "Just put up the lights."

"Why?" Jack repeats and Sam moves to him, placing a strong hand on his shoulder.

"Christmas is kind of like a party."

"For who?"

"Jesus, technically," Dean replies, adjusting the real tree in their tree holder. He fiddles with the trunk, trying to lock it into the base, "But really, it's just a chance for us to chill out."

Jack drops the lights on the ground, anger flashing in his eyes, "We don't have time to chill out. We have to—"

Sam picks up the lights, "And we will," He hands them back to Jack, "But we've got to wait on some leads and it's almost Christmas."

Jack doesn't seem like he gets it, but he does as he's told, helping Dean string the lights up on the tree.

Sam can't help but smile. When was the last time he and Dean had just relaxed? Without Jack here, they'd probably be treating this time as if it was normal day. But with Jack, the two of them had a new purpose, helping this young man figure out his path.

"Done."

Jack stares at the lights.

"I see."

Dean rolls his eyes and turns on the lights.

Jack eyes widen, "Wow."

Sam beams.

"Let's go have some hot chocolate." Dean leads Jack to the kitchen, leaving Sam behind.

* * *

And then Sam's back in reality.

Jack is dead. Chuck killed him.

All those moments they spent together, all those precious memories, burn.

"Merry Christmas, Jack." He whispers to the dark spot where they're tree stood last year.

This year, there's nothing to celebrate.


	8. Darkside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He told me that I might have to kill you, Sammy."

* * *

" _My winter nights are taken up by static_

_Stress and holiday shopping traffic_

_But I close my eyes and I'm somewhere else_

_Just like magic."_

_Taylor Swift, "Christmas Tree Farm"_

* * *

Sam is a monster.

He can't breathe, can't process what Dean has told, what John knew and didn't tell him. His mind is racing, a thousand thoughts a minute, all ending with dire pictures of Dean lying dead because of him.

_He told me that I might have to kill you, Sammy._

He needs to figure things out, so he runs. He leaves Dean and the motel behind him, hotwires a car and drives endlessly. Sam knows he shouldn't—Dean would freak out—but really, the youngest Winchester could handle his brother looking at him, searching for some sort of secret sign that Sam might go darkside.

God, it makes his stomach heave.

His phone keeps ringing, but Sam won't answer. He doesn't want to hear his brother's frantic voice. Dean would track him using the phone and that would be enough. Until then though, Sam needs space.

He pulls over on a dirt road overlooking a frozen lake. Trees surround it, giant evergreens that seems to almost blanket the pale blue sky above. He takes a breath and steps out of the car, the biting cold hitting him. Still, it feels nice—there's no around, no sounds of traffic, no voices of people, just birds chirping sight unseen—and he takes a step toward the lake.

It would be the perfect image for Christmas card, he thinks, dimly realizing that yes, Christmas is indeed coming. Funny, all the spirit seems to have been sucked out of him, leaving only despair and emptiness. Then again, it's not every day you find out that your father was asking your brother to kill you if you went evil.

What exactly did John know? What secrets about Sam's origin was he concealing? Why hadn't he said anything when he was alive?

"Damnit!" Sam punches the trunk of the nearest tree, not caring that it cuts his knuckles open or makes his hand ache. He'd rather feel pain, than the panic that consumes him. Would he go evil? Would he kill Dean?

Why didn't John say anything?

He faces the frozen lake, exhaling slowly, trying to focus on the serenity that surrounds him. Here, in nature, it feels like he's just a normal person. He steps towards the lake, wishing for a moment that he had ice skates. That was one of the few things that he'd tried and enjoyed at Stanford. Skating on the ice, it felt freeing—like you could glide away from all your problems—and though he doesn't have skates, he just needs that moment again.

He steps cautiously onto the ice, testing for thickness, but it easily holds his weight. It's frozen solid and with a dry laugh, Sam slowly moves, letting his shoes glide. From afar, he must look quite the sight, sliding on the ice, attempting to do it somewhat gracefully.

But, for the first time since Dean spoke those words to him, he feels happy.

It's only for a moment, but for right now, it's enough.

And then, it's gone.

The ice under him cracks, breaking suddenly and Sam scrambles, trying to dive back toward the shore, but it's too late.

He sinks into the dark freezing depths.

But maybe, he idly thinks as his body shuts down, too numb to move, maybe this is for the best. After all, if he's dead, then he won't go evil.

Maybe this is what John would've wanted.

As his eyes fall shut and his lungs burn, he waits to fade away.

Only it doesn't happen. He's yanked back to the surface and he emerges, gasping, begging for air.

"Easy, Sammy, easy," Dean's voice is steady by his ear, a warm hand hitting his back, forcing Sam to expel any water he swallowed, "Gonna take care of you."

They make it to shore safely, though it's all a blur really and he's sure that Dean mostly dragged him there, but somehow, he's bundled in the backseat of the Impala, his wet clothes taken off and his cold body enveloped by a fluffy blanket.

"D-Dean?" His teeth keep chattering, hurting his jaw. His whole body shakes violently, which is a good sign really, but his brain is too foggy to recall why.

Dean meets his gaze in the rear-view mirror, green eyes pooling with concern, "It's gonna be okay, Sam."

And even in his half-lucid state, Sam knows he isn't just referring to the lake fiasco.

* * *

One hospital trip later, they're back at the motel, where Sam is buried under all the blankets that Dean could find.

"What were you thinking?" Dean roars as he paces the length of their tiny motel room, "Walking on fucking ice, Sam? How stupid are you?" Sam admits, it hadn't been his finest moment. Dean doesn't give him a chance to speak before plowing on, "If I hadn't gotten there, you'd be dead."

"Which is what Dad wanted, right?" The words just slip out without any forethought.

Dean's eyes widen, "What did you just say?"

Sam glances away, "I just mean . . . if I had died, it would've been better, right? For you?"

Dean doesn't say anything for the longest time, slowly inhaling and exhaling, trying to keep his flaming temper in check. Finally, he takes a seat at the edge of Sam's bed and grabs his brother's hands in his, "No, Sam. It wouldn't have," Dean's voice is shaky as he continues, "You are it, Sam. You're my brother and the only family I've got left. And I'm not losing you."

"But Dad—"

"Dad didn't know shit!" Dean shouts, "He doesn't know us, not really. If anyone can beat the odds, it's us."

Sam wants to believe him, wants to hope that somehow their father was wrong.

"Sammy?"

Sam looks up and meets those eyes have been with him his whole life.

"Trust me."

So, Sam does. He has to.

Together, they'll make it through this. 


	9. Miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The snow soothed his burning skin."

* * *

" _In the bleak midwinter_

_Frosty wind made moan_

_Earth stood hard as iron_

_Water like a stone_

_Snow had fallen, snow on snow_

_Snow on snow_

_In the bleak midwinter_

_Long ago."_

_Celtic Thunder, "In The Bleak Midwinter"_

* * *

The snow felt soothing on his flaming skin. In the deserted forest, Sam laid in the snow, eyes gazing upwards at the clear, blue sky as the puffy clouds rolled across. It was oddly peaceful and honestly, a relief, as it finally drowned out the ringing laughter echoing in his ears. He couldn't remember exactly how he got here, dressed in only a pair of jeans, a light t-shirt and a thin jacket, but his head ached, and the world spun.

"Pretty, huh, Sammy?"

He didn't need to turn his head to know it was the Devil beside him. Sam kept his gaze glued to the sky, letting the cool snow engulf him in numbness, wishing for it all to just go away.

Lucifer hummed "carol of the bells" and cackled.

"Pretty day to die, huh, Sammy?"

Sam shut his eyes and tried to drift away.

* * *

Castiel stood in the middle of the forest, Sam's discarded cell phone in his grasp. The angel's brow furrowed, his lips tightened in a thin line, grimacing. It had been nearly six hours since Sam had stopped taking Dean's calls and after tracking the phone's location, Castiel offered to go ahead and scout the area while Dean drove the Impala across state lines. It wasn't ideal, but they didn't know what kind of state Sam was in or where they would need to go to hunker down and figure out what the next step was.

Since the wall had been broken, Sam had been in a world of eternal pain. Castiel honestly didn't understand how the broken young man kept functioning with the visions of the Devil taunting him at every corner. Still, the strength that Sam displayed on a daily basis amazed the angel. How could anyone in so much pain act like he was fine and push through without nary a complaint?

Sam Winchester may have been chosen to be the Devil's vessel, but as far as Castiel was concerned, he was the kindest human that he'd ever encountered.

And Castiel would find him if it was the last thing he did.

* * *

The sky was growing darker, the clouds giving way to stars shining in the heavens. The temperature had dropped significantly, but Sam couldn't feel it. His body was numb, and the Devil had finally grown silent. Maybe he was dying, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Sam knew he was broken, that he was damaged goods. He was no use to his brother or Bobby. He was barely handling his daily life, let alone hunting. At this point, he was a walking liability and he shouldn't go on.

No, Sam would fade away in this forest, lying in the snow, on this crystalline night, letting his pain be numb by the freshly fallen snow.

"Sam?"

Only there was a pair of cerulean eyes staring down at him, a warm hand on his freezing cheek.

"C-Cas?" Sam swallowed, his voice hoarse and dry. His chest felt heavy, his lungs sucking in air, but it felt like syrup, hard to inhale.

Castiel's eyes darted around, searching for something that Sam couldn't quite figure out. Slowly, the angel pulled Sam's body up, resting his big frame against the angel's shoulder. He lowered his voice, "Stay with me, Sam. I'm going to get you somewhere safe."

There's was a flutter of wings, but Sam couldn't keep his eyes open. He wanted to protest, wanted to state that he wasn't worth saving, but the words wouldn't come.

Darkness, however, did.

* * *

Jody Mills liked to say that nothing fazed her, but when a trenchcoated angel appeared in the middle of her kitchen holding an unconscious Sam Winchester in his arms, she couldn't help but jump.

"Sam?"

The youngest Winchester's head lolled, his skin way too pale, almost the color of a corpse in the morgue.

"I found him in the snow—"

"Put him here," Jody gestured to the well-worn couch, pulling a blanket out of her spare closet, draping it over Sam, "He's too cold." She rushed through the house, pulling out any and all blankets she found, hoping to any deity in the heavens that they would be enough.

Castiel—that was the angel's name, she remembered—stood helplessly by the couch, his eyes locked on the hunter lying on the couch.

"Here," She shoved blankets in his hands, "I'll get some hot water. We have to warm him up."

"Understood." Castiel nodded and meticulously wrapped all the blankets around Sam's thin frame.

Jody moved past the cheery Christmas decorations she'd put up in her house and tried to focus on the task at hand. She didn't know what was going on or where Dean was, but she had to somehow hold this together.

She had to save Sam.

* * *

Sam blinked as an unfamiliar room decorated with rainbow Christmas lights came into focus. His body felt like lead, covered by a mountain of soft blankets and warmth permeated his frail frame.

"So, we didn't die," Lucifer muttered, smirking, "Maybe next Christmas, huh?"

"Sam?" Jody moved into focus, her warm smile reminding him of a mother he didn't remember. She placed a hand on his forehead, running her fingers through his hair, "How are you feeling, sweetheart?"

"Yeah, tell the nice Sheriff how you can see the Devil right beside you." Lucifer chirped, practically chuckling.

"What happened?" He tried to sit up, but a steady handheld him down.

"I found you in the snow," Castiel explained softly, "Do you remember what happened?"

Sam frowned, "No."

"That's okay," Jody soothed, a warm smile on her lips, "Dean is on his way. Just rest up until he gets here."

"Yeah, let big brother fix this," Lucifer cackled, "But we both know it won't help."

Castiel must've seen where his gaze was drifting, glancing back at the spot where the Devil occupied, "Rest, Sam. All will be well."

It was a lie, but Sam closed his eyes and let himself try to believe it.


End file.
